


Temerity

by Viking_woman



Series: Love Is Not A Victory March [3]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angry Lavellan, Angst, Bad Decisions, Belting, Cock & Ball Torture, Dom Lavellan, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hopeful Ending, Impact Play, Light Bondage, Love, Mention of bloodplay, Open Ending, Oral, Post-Trespasser, Rough Body Play, Rough Sex, Smut, Spanking, Sub Solas, aggressive domming, attempting to fix unhealthy relationship with unhealthy sex, collaring, dom/sub dynamics, late to life magic user, no negotiation scening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2018-12-20 05:39:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11914341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Viking_woman/pseuds/Viking_woman
Summary: Iwyn Lavellan is doing all that she can to stay one step ahead of Solas, opposing him after he reveals his plans. When she runs into her former lover in an abandoned ruin, they start a tenuous and dangerous dance.They can't help but being drawn to each other, no matter how harsh the flames of love or hate will burn them.--This is the main part of the Love Is Not A Victory March series. The prequels merely takes place in the same universe, and are not required reading.





	1. Chapter 1

She should have expected that she would run into him somewhere, in an abandoned temple like this. He is looking for information, and so is she. The Inquisition, or what was left of it, is searching everywhere for every scrap they can find. She is still surprised, and not ready to see him again. His broad shoulders, his tall back. His clothing is finer than she is used to, a soft linen shirt with a high collar, his signature wolf pelt slung over his shoulder. She never did figure out if he wore it in earnestness or irony.

He turns, hands behind his back. Distant, yet the same as always.

“Inquisitor.”

“Fen’Harel.” She is not going to give him anything, and holds herself tall, mirroring him.

“I am surprised to see you alone, Inquisitor.”

“And yet here I am. I thought your agents kept you well-informed?” He doesn’t need to know she out-witted her ‘escort’. She is tired of having babysitters.

He chuckles, but it sounds strained, like rocks in dry riverbed.

“Very well.” He moves closer, slow and familiar. “Did you come to seek me out?” 

She shakes her head at his presumption. She has been trying, and until now, succeeding, in avoiding him. Seeing him this close makes her want to shake in furor, break down in tears. She must keep her distance. 

“What I came here for is none of your business, Solas.”

“Is it not? What do you hope to accomplish, coming here alone? You are not safe.” 

“Concerned for my safety now?” She can feel her rage in her gut, simmering underneath her skin, like lightning in a bottle. She continues down the path he came from. She has no time for his games. “I do not plan to sit idly by while you destroy my world, Solas.”

“Iwyn.” Her name on his lips is a painful sweetness. He grabs her arm as she moves past him.

She pulls herself free in a violent jerk.  “You are not in any position to decide where I go, Solas.” She tries to move away, but he is crowding her against the wall. A step from an embrace that will never happen, a fight that is too dangerous.

“There are many secrets here. I cannot allow you to learn them. I will stop you.” The look in his eyes is desperate and angry. Seeing him again is unsettling. The way he holds himself, the line of his jaw. She wants to touch him.

“I suggest you move away from me.” She lifts her chin, and counters his threat with one of her own. He is correct, of course, if he wants to stop her he can, easily. But his arrogance is infuriating. “Unless you plan to kill me where I stand.” 

“I implore you, do not press on. _Vhenan_ …” he never gets to finish his sentence. The anger in her burns so strong, the rage consuming. Her focus, her power comes unbidden.

The blast pushes him backwards, Solas lands on his back. Her magic is a small flame, uncontrolled, rough, barely there. She is not a mage, but she has always had a tiny bit of magic, like many in her clan. Lately, she has been practicing, growing it. The world has no need of a one-armed archer. The flare is wild and catches her too, and she lands on top of him, sitting across him.

It is a position it has been a while since she has been in. He looks up, a stunned look on his face.

She slaps him. Hard. His head snaps to the side.

“Don’t call me that. How dare you! You have no right!” Her face contorts with fury, lips drawn to a snarl.

“Sorry.” It comes out meeker, truer, than she expected. She can feel him under her. His hips move slightly, bucking up towards her.

She narrows her eyes. She wants to hear him again. She wants to feel him again. Her second slap jerks his face in the other direction. Her remaining arm still has a strong backhand. 

“Again,” she demands.

“I’m sorry.” She is not mistaken. She can feel him hard, wanting, beneath her, as his hips move against her once more. 

She sits back with her hand raised. Solas breathes deeply, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Her anger fades a little, giving way to an odd intrigue. “Are you that lonely, Solas?” She murmurs, mockingly.” She lets her hand drop to trace his jaw. “Or maybe you have a great need to apologize?”

He opens his mouth, closes it, his words lost. Color rises in his cheeks, and he nods ever so slightly.

The red haze in her vision is clearing, only the edges remain. She did not expect this, and there is a buzzing in her ears, power, curiosity. She feels like the world is going off its axis, and a rush of need fills her. She wants to hear him apologize, again and again, like hard crystals spilling from his lips.

She leans over and whispers in his ear. “If you truly wish to apologize, maybe you should get on your hands and knees. Naked.”

Solas inhales, harsh and loud. Rash and unwise, she has gone too far. Detached, she wonders if he will end her right there. Then he nods, again. She starts to scramble off him, give him room, but his eyes flash and everything is gone, he is naked, just like that. His jawbone necklace is still on his chest. The display of his power leaves her mind spinning.

He gets on his hands and knees before her, right there on the walkway, beneath the mosaics exalting June. She pauses a moment and takes in the sight of him. Her thoughts blooming in her mind like a flower from the past, she remembers how she fleetingly had wanted to put her hands on him in a playful game. She had never worked herself up to ask. It seems so far away now, a hazy dream. Presently, the thought of skin on skin is too intimate. She slowly withdraws her belt from her waist.  Grasps the end and holds it as a loop, and lets her instincts guide her.

“You need to tell me what you are sorry for.” She lets the leather belt caress his back, his buttocks.

“I’m sorry.” Low and hesitant, the words pull from his lips.

She raises the belt and brings it down on his bare ass. The sound is loud, like the snap of a bowstring, echoing in the ruin. He gasps.

“I’m sorry for deceiving you.”

She finds his choice of words interesting, but she is past talking. She smacks him again. Red lines appear on his flesh.

“I’m sorry for giving the orb to Corypheus.” His words are immediate, like they were waiting to be said. She hesitates a moment, her gaze travelling from him on his knees to the belt hanging loose in her hand. She exhales. Inhales. Then she brings down the belt again. 

This swing is wild, and she hits low on his thighs.  He jerks forward and lets out a loud yell, and she realizes the edge of the belt has caught his balls where they hang heavy between his legs. For a moment, she worries that he will simply use his powers to leave, to slide through the fade, but he pushes himself back to his previous position. Waiting. She bites her lip, torn between apologizing and hitting his balls again, on purpose. No. It is not her place to apologize, and though she shouldn’t care about hurting him, she realizes she is far too angry for something this delicate.

He stays steady in front on her, and she hits him again, this time striking true across his ass.

“I’m sorry, _ir abelas_. I’m sorry for failing,” his apology breathy, at the top of his voice.

The reddened marks on his skin are prominent, and beautiful, in a way she didn’t expect. She hits him again, gives no quarter. This time an apology in Elvish, something with Mythal. She doesn’t get the rest. She can see his cock between his legs, hard. When she brings down the belt again, his hips push forward, seeking nonexistent friction in the air. 

His words are incomprehensible now, spilling from his lips in a stream of Elvish. It sounds like he is crying. She hits him again, and again, the sound of leather on flesh the only sound among the stone.

No more words come from him, except for a broken please above the crying. She stops, then. She caresses his bruised ass, and Solas lets out a low sound, like a hiss. Her hand dips lower, and she gently tugs his balls. He moans. Nothing is left of his distant proudness, he is just a broken man on his knees. The air is vibrating and she wipes the sweat from her brow. The sounds he makes and the sight of him are intoxicating, unexpected. Everything is unknown, floating, and she is just as turned on as he is.

She walks around him and crouches down. She wants to wipe the tears off his face, but she doesn’t. She does kiss him, brief and hard. She shouldn’t, but there is only so much anger she can keep, with him naked and needy, and her own wetness between her thighs.

“Please,” he says, but he stays where he is. Waiting on her.

"Do you want me to fuck you?” she asks. Blunt to the point; she has no mind for being coy.

“Yes,” he answers, a moan from his mouth.

She kisses him again. _Stop_ , she thinks. She must be careful.

“Good. Get on your back.” It comes out a growl, and she barely recognizes her own voice.

She struggles for a moment with her own clothes. She wishes she could do this more elegant, but there is no way. She sits in the dust and pulls off her boots, pushes her leggings and smalls down. Thankful she isn't wearing leg armor and buckles. Her anger returns, like a spring flood to a dry riverbed. All he has taken from her. She wants to claim it back.

Solas has stretched himself out the ground, eyes following her. She stands above him, bare legs and leather clad chest. She lowers herself to her knees, hovering above him, his erection hard and wanting under her. His eyes are glazed over and she sees a flash of pain as he moves beneath her, seeking her. His raw skin must hurt on the rough ground. She doesn't care. She doesn't.

She slams herself down on his cock. Groans as he fills her, it is almost too much after all this time.  She is not sparing him, so why should she spare herself? He is so large, and the burn as he stretches her feels like ecstasy and purgatory.

He bucks and moves, and she leans forward and places her hand on his chest, pushing, digging her nails into his flesh.  He understands her intent, and stills his movements. Even so far apart, they communicate well. She doesn’t know if that should make her bitter or pleased. She leans further, and sucks his lower lip into her mouth. Bites down to hear him growl and trash.

She sets the pace, moving up and down slowly and controlled. She loves the feel of him, the hard ridge of his cock inside her.

“Please,” Solas moans, “please.” His head is thrown back and his muscles are taunt from the effort of staying still. His hands push into the dirt, nothing for him to grip.

She arches her back, keeps the slow, teasing pace. With every move, she grinds her clit into him, pleasures herself on him as she rides his length. His whimpers and struggles beneath her push her closer to the edge.

“Please…” he says, again, and his eyes are closed, screwed shut.

 She moves faster, picking up speed, as she moves her hand between them, to rub and press, the edge of her orgasm waiting.

“Let go,” she tells him, and he does. He lifts into her, and his arms goes to her hips, his power helping her movement. Frantic, fast, there is no holding back now, both of them have lost control. It doesn’t take long, and she reaches her release with a scream echoing off the walls. She collapses on his chest, and then Solas’ hips jerk and he lets out a hoarse grunt as he follows her.

His arms slide up her back, holds her in loose embrace. In a brief second, all she can feel is the warmth of him, his smell. She can almost forget what they have become. She kisses him again, she can’t help it. He starts to say something, but she shakes her head.

 She looks at him and she loves him. Still. She wants to tell him, but she can’t. This might be the last time she sees him. The last time she feels him. Tears almost form in her eyes. She closes them tight and steels herself, pushes her heart away. She has to play this out the way it started.

He winces in pain when she moves off him. She almost does the same in sympathy, and in that moment, she wishes they were in a soft bed, and she could gently clean him, soothe his marks with salves. That is not their reality. She looks away.

Solas is still on the ground, panting and dazed, as she gets her clothing. She doesn’t want to leave him, she doesn’t want the next time to see him be distant, across a battlefield. She wants to see him like this again, she realizes. Naked and vulnerable. The intensity of it takes her by surprise.

She tucks her discarded clothing under the remainder of her left arm and prepares to leave. She needs to hurry before her heart breaks out of its cage.  No matter what happens, she will not be able to forget this. She doesn’t think he should either. As she moves past him, on the ground, she drops her belt on his chest.

“In case you have more you need to apologize for. You know where I live.”

She walks away without looking back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Endless thanks to [ Keturagh ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Keturagh/pseuds/Keturagh) for suggestions and enthusiastic encouragement along the way. 
> 
> Also thanks to everyone else who has cheered me on and put up with my vagueing about this for too many months. 
> 
> \---
> 
> For those of you who care, this is an alternate series of events from what I consider 'canon' post-Trespasser events for my Inquisitor Iwyn Lavellan. 
> 
> \---
> 
> Please note that this is a work of fantasy, nothing here is how things work in real life.  
> This not necessarily meant to portray a healthy relationship.


	2. Interlude

He keeps it, tucked away in a drawer. Whenever he sees it, he can’t help but run his fingers over the smooth leather. His thoughts return to her, to their meeting, to what she took and what she gave.

 He had never expected… it is not as he is surprised that she is capable. Her capability to do anything well was never in doubt. But he never had thought she would touch him again, even like that. Especially like that. He shudders, and think of the sting of pain, the gravel beneath his hands and knees.

He takes the belt out, and holds it between his hands. He had felt peaceful, a moment suspended in time. He had been allowed to feel. He had been allowed to love. He can’t, but he does. Desperately, deeply, like the echoing of a buried bell.

He wonders if she would forgive him. He doubts it. She shouldn’t. He still thinks of her, thinks of her touch, thinks of hearing her speak words of love again. He shakes his head, he should not think of _love_. But his thoughts are persistent, and if not love, he envisions a small kindness, a gentle caress, as he sits at her feet. He does not deserve even that.

He wonders if everything he does is worth it. If any of this matters, or if maybe the realness of this world matters more in the end. If her touch would absolve him from his past, if her love would set him free. He knows it cannot. It must not. He still craves it.

He sometimes thinks about going to her, taking her up on her parting words. He thinks it would not be right of him, but he yearns to be selfish for a little while. In his delusion, he imagines it could bring her certain catharsis, to see him on his knees. She would not be gentle.

Would she help him forget, or make him atone? Would she draw confessions of his transgressions from his lips, or would she disparage him with her own words? Any option is enticing. He would crawl for her, for her alone.

He closes his eyes and exhales. He uses both hands to put her belt back in the drawer. He does not touch himself. Not this time.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

It is barely past dinner time, and the sun still casts its warm light through the windows. Iwyn ascends the stairs to her room, sending a few glittering dust motes swirling into the air. She doesn’t usually retire this early, but she is happy to be done for the day. Maybe she should send for a bath, relax and take her mind of the things rattling in her brain.   

Her mouth draws to a thin line, and she forces herself to unclench her jaw. It has been over a month since her… encounter with Solas. Fen'Harel. She can't get him out of her head. Especially not when reports of his agents’ activities land on her desk. Her barely concealed thoughts are probably the reason there was nothing more to discuss today. She saw Cassandra and Cullen give each other a look across the table, and suddenly they had other things to do.

Maybe she should talk to someone about it, about him. She doesn’t even know where to begin. Her sheer stupidity? Her betrayal by not telling, until now? The fact that the thought of him, moaning in pain and on his knees in front of her, still turned her on? She stops at the top of the stairs and exhales. This is not where her thoughts should be headed. Thinking about it makes her hot with need, she wants to purge it from her mind, she wants to dwell on it in privacy.

She closes the door to her bedroom and locks it. Turning from the door she freezes, the sight in front of her completely unexpected.  

Solas is kneeling on the rug in front of the fireplace. He is naked, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. His head is bowed, eyes downcast. Something is wrapped around his neck like a collar, and ends like a leash hanging down his chest. She wets her lips and realizes it is her belt.

She still hasn't moved, and gives herself a moment to get her balance. He clearly knows she is here, she wasn't silent. Yet he is still, unmoving. She wonders how he got in, the Eluvian or some other magic. It does not matter. She did invite him, in a way, but she did not expect him to come here, and certainly not like this. What would he had done if she had sent someone to prepare a bath? How long would he had waited if her meeting had dragged into the night?

No use thinking about that right now. She shakes her head. She needs to react, to move. He is here, wanting something from her. She promised more punishment, and despite her ill-conceived offer, she is suddenly angry at his audacity. No matter the vulnerable position he appears to be in, he is only here because he does not fear her, because he does not fear the Inquisition. She lets her ire move her forward.

She grabs the riding crop that has been placed on the table as she walks by it. The handle is deliberately placed at the exact angle where it is easy to pick up with her right hand as she passes it walking from the door towards him. His boldness is lightning beneath her skin.

Even on his knees, Solas is a large man. His presence fills her chamber and she cannot deny the fluttering in her heart to see him here. She yearns to touch him with tenderness, to press kisses to his jaw. She is not allowed to do that.

The pleasure he craves is cruel and jagged, and she admits the thrill of it fills her veins. This is how she can reach him, and she will. She wants him like this too, on his knees, submissive. Her body tenses, her nipples tighten against her shirt. Like this, she can allow herself to desire him. Like this, he grants her access to him. She wishes it didn’t have to be like this, a futile hope that he would always be here, that he would allow, allow, allow, not just for this fleeting moment, but for all the days to come.

If she is not allowed to love him, if she is not allowed to forgive him, at least she should be allowed to give them both a ragged release, a place to come together. She must do so now, and push forward with no hesitation, grant this entry into absurdity. If they talk now, it would be fight or flight, and she wants neither. This love, this bitterness, this uncertainty and lust twisting in her gut, it is all they have. This is what he longs for and she will oblige. What would she lose by giving what he needs, that she has not already lost?

She lets the swirl of whys and cannots drain away, and she focuses on the moment. The feel of the leather braiding of the crop’s handle. The pattern the fire paints on Solas’ skin. The crisp smell of mountain air floating through the open window.

She stands in front of him, and then she circles him. She does not touch him, yet. He has not moved. He has not spoken.  She lets her eyes wander over him, his bowed head, the soles of his feet.

The crop ends in a flat leather tongue, and she lets it trail over his ass, up his back, across his shoulder as she moves to stand in front of him. He suppresses a shiver when she rests it on his cheek.

“Look at me,” she says, low and gentle.

Solas raises his head, and his eyes are a grey and hungry storm. She lifts the crop away and holds his gaze. His chest rises and falls slowly with his deep breaths of air, and she focuses on her own, her lungs filling with air. The world narrows to the two of them, lonely beings in a crowd of stars.

 She brings the down the crop, swinging wildly to hit across his shoulders. It draws a harsh line on is skin and Solas grunts, his lips parting.

“You are shameless coming here,” she says.

He nods slightly, and she flicks her wrist, delivering three soft strikes across his chest.

“Presumptuous.”

He groans and nods again, and she uses the crop once more, harder, hitting just below his nipples. Solas’ body jerks with the sting.

“Answer me,” she says, her voice strong and steady.

“Yes, I am. I am, _vhe_ … Inquisitor.”

The crop sings again, and again, soft and hard and soft. With each hit Solas’ body lurches, his skin reddening. He is not silent, and the small yips and whines he gives her are gratifying. She is aroused, her body tight, like a bow waiting for release.

“Insolent,” she says, trailing the crop gently down his chest, touching his cock, pushing the leather tip into his balls. His hands clench at his sides.

“Yes,” he moans. “Please.” He is needy, his cock hard and wanting.

“Spread your legs,” she says. Her voice sounds foreign to her own ears, and she bites her lip to keep from trembling. She remembers the last time they met.

He does as she asks, without hesitation.

“Good,” she murmurs, letting the crop hover in the air, pausing a moment. She should not enjoy hurting him, controlling him, dominating him, but she does. They were lovers and they are enemies, and she will make every strike, every pain, every command, stand in for love. She will take what she is given, and she will allow herself this leniency.

She swings the switch, hitting his balls with a gentle strike that still makes him whimper. She rapidly brings the crop back again, twice.

Solas grunts and his arms lift and jerk with his body, then fall back to his side. His fingers tremble and he says nothing. He is too proud to tell her if it is too much, she thinks, and she wants to peel back this armor of arrogance until nothing is left but Solas, himself.

She flicks the crop again, tapping against the soft skin of his inner thigh. She doesn’t think of the sighs she could draw from him kissing him there, how he had shuddered under her in a different surrender.

She turns the crop in her hand and she strikes between his legs again. Perhaps a little harder than she intended, or maybe not as hard as she wants. Solas lets out a half scream, and he collapses forward, putting his weight on his right arm.

She doesn’t know if his defeat makes her pleased or guilty.

“Breathe a moment,” she says.

She runs her hand over the belt and the makeshift collar, then she gently pets his neck. He still doesn’t tell her to stop, to pause, but he doesn’t get up yet either. She grants him a moment to collect himself, and his skin burns beneath her fingertips. His breathing steadies, the fast gulps of air becoming slower and calmer.

With the switch held firmly by her thumb, she hooks two fingers under the dark leather at his throat. She leans close, her lips ghosting his ear.

“Is this why you came here?” she asks. She pulls at the collar until he is on his knees again. “Is this what you deserve?”

“Yes -- yes, please, more.” His voice is rough and deep, she presses her thighs together at the sound.

His cock is hard despite her treatment, or perhaps because of it. His legs slide out slightly, leaving him fully exposed. She licks her lips, relishing his willingness to place himself at her mercy, even if it but a wary second.

She kisses his cheek and moves back. He smells like he always did, like the man she loves.

“Try to stay still now,” she says, and she taps his erection gently with the crop to hear him moan. He does, a low grunt as he struggles to stay motionless, his thighs trembling in effort. She takes a step back and walks behind him.

She longs to touch him. He is beautiful, wide shoulders and muscles defined on his arms, his strong thighs. She sighs. She longs to love him, to gently let her arms around him, to show him what they have lost. But it is not what he wants. She cannot reach him like that. She cannot let herself love him openly, it is a secret she only knows in the pre-dawn hour, when the world is soft. He will not accept her love, and her love is not tolerable in the jagged reality she endures.

She flicks her wrist, bringing the crop down across his back, fast swats to redden his skin. I love you, I love you, I hate you, I love you.

Without warning, she twists the switch, and hit him right between his legs, his open stance giving her all the access she needs. His whole body stiffens against it, in an effort to hold still. He does not have his voice controlled as well as his body, and his wail echo off the walls. She doesn’t care if someone hears, and she let his cries float above the dull sounds of the crop whacking his ass.

Her clothes are too tight, too hot, and she pauses a moment. She looks at Solas, at his flushed skin. His eyes are shining, and his cock is hard and red and a wet line precum runs down from the tip. She wonders if he could come from teasing it with the crop.

It is not what she wants right now, and she can admit to herself that she worries if it would be enough for him, if he would leave once he got what he needed. She wants to make him forget how he got here. She wants him to make her come, to see to her need. She wants to make him wait. She runs her tongue over her dry lips.

She walks to her desk and pours a glass of water from the crystal decanter. It is meant to be filled with wine, but it is so pretty she wants to use it every day. She drinks and pours again, then carries the glass to Solas.

“I think this is enough,” she says. “Drink.”

He does, and she takes the glass back.

“Thank you,” he whispers, and he doesn’t meet her eyes.

She puts the glass away, and return stand in front of him, taking in his vulnerable desire. She grabs the end of belt. Yanks it, once, twice, until he sways forward. She turns around and pulls, she doesn’t care how he chooses to follow. She can hear his hands hit the floor, he must be crawling behind her. She is pleased. The sounds change as he shuffles across the hard stone floor, when he reaches the carpet in front of her bed.

She sits on the edge of the bed, on the soft white sheets, and she lets go of the leash. She places the crop carefully next to her.

Solas stays on his hands and knees, silent before her. His skin is flushed and marked, a sheen of sweat across his shoulders.

“Undress me,” she says, her voice quiet.

Solas raises himself onto his knees, and reaches forward. He starts at the buckles on her jacket, his elegant fingers carefully undoing them one by one. He doesn't look up, he keeps his eyes on his task.

He gently pushes the jacket off her shoulders and pulls it off her right arm. It falls off her left shoulder by itself, and he meticulously folds it. He then starts on her linen shirt, lifting it up, pulling it off her right arm. When he gets to the tied off sleeve on her left, he pauses a moment, and his jaw clench as he slides her blouse all the way off. He lifts his hand towards the remnant of her arm, but he hesitates, fingers hovering in the air.

 “You may touch,” she says. It bothers him, she knows, and it should. But this is her, and this is what she is.  

He does touch, then, his fingers lightly brushing her flesh. Slowly. Questioning.

“Does it hurt?” he asks, in a whisper. His eyes are fixed on his own pale fingers on her flesh.

“Not much anymore,” she says.

He looks up at her, dark lashes lifting, his eyes grey in the low light. The expression in them, an undefinable mix of regret, love, longing, and sorrow, makes her inhale sharply, her own eyes wide and caught in his.

He trembles.

She wants to fall to her knees and hold him tight, she wants to cry, she wants to never let go. She wants to forgive him, and her lips curl up in disgust. They’re at war, and this is just a momentary distraction, an unchecked spiral of lust and madness. She needs them to descend into it, to let the lunacy pull them under. If they emerge in rain of clarity, if she pulls him close and whispers sweetness in his ears, he will leave soon. He will leave and he will never be back.  

The uncertainty chimes inside her, does she want him to come back? She knows she does not want him to leave. Not now, and not ever. She puts away the crystal bells.

“Enough,” she says, forcing steel into her voice. She has to bring them back to where they were, to the unspoken agreement of pain and pleasure that keeps them afloat in this sea of feelings. Feelings they both ignore.

Her hand falls to the crop next to her, and she lift it slightly.

He drops his eyes to the floor. His fingers briefly ghost over the roughness of her scar, before his hand falls away. It rests helplessly against his side, like a fallen bird.

“Undress me,” she presses, and lets the crop caress his jaw. “And don’t make me repeat myself again.”

Solas draws a breath, and then he bends down. He grabs her boots and pulls them off one by one, then slides his hands over feet, her calves. They travel all the way up her legs to grab the waistband of her pants, and she lifts her hips slightly to let him pull them off her. He takes off her bra and slides down her panties, and then she is as naked as he is.

She doesn’t move, she sits on her bed above him. Solas takes the rest of her clothing, and folds it, and places it in a neat pile on top of her jacket. He sits back on his heels and waits.  

Iwyn reaches for the belt again, where it hangs from his neck, the dark leather stark against his skin. She lets her eyes rest on him for a moment, the marks on his chest, the redness of his shoulders, his cock heavy between his legs. His knees, slightly apart, resting on the worn rug. She did this, she put him there, and her arousal wrecks her body.

He stumbles forward when she pulls on the belt, closer and then closer still, as she spreads her legs. She is open and wet before him, and she keeps gently tugging at the leash, until his head is bent and his back bowed. He is so close that he must be able to smell her. Then she jerks her hand, hard, and lifts her hips towards him. His face hits her sex and her intent is clear.

Solas lets out a muffled sound and immediately his tongue dips inside her, he greedily sucks her juices. His tongue moves, up to her clit, around it, then pressing against her. She loses track of what he does, surrendering to the feeling, the pressure, the pleasure.

It feels so good, and a pleased noise escapes her as she her body falls backwards on the plush bed. He is so skilled at this, and she can’t help her moans. She wants to tell him, but she doesn’t. He doesn’t deserve the praise.  

She grinds against him and she keeps her hold on the leash, not letting him pull back. He doesn’t try. His hands move to her hips, her ass, lifting her into him, and she allows it, she lets him hold her, keep her, ground her, as she flies apart. He keeps licking and sucking as her orgasm washes over her, as she gasps and trashes and screams.

Now he moves slower, gentler, and he turns his head to tenderly kiss her inner thigh. He draws his mouth up her leg, up her hip. He presses a kiss to her belly, and rests his head there.

She caresses him, runs her hand over the shell of his ear as she calms herself. Her limbs are heavy, her body is floating. The weight of him is warm.

She flicks the tip of his ear with her finger, and he makes a disgruntled noise. It isn’t very nice, she knows, but being nice didn’t make him stay. She does it again.

“I’m not done with you,” she mumbles, and she has forgotten that Solas was the one to come here, that she didn’t command him here for her pleasure. She grips his ear and pulls his head back, and off her stomach.

“Of course,” Solas says, and the corner of his mouth lift in a smirk. He knows what he does to her, he was never humble in their pleasure.

She keeps moving him as she clenches her muscles to sit herself all the way up, and he sits in front of her again, his head tilted back slightly. She lets go of him.

“Get on the bed, and hold the headboard,” she says, gesturing behind her.

He does as told, and he lies back with his arms stretched above his head, impossible long, on display. She runs her hand over his chest.

“Beautiful,” she sighs.

He shakes his head slightly, but her glance keeps him from voicing his protest.

Iwyn takes the end of the belt and loops it around a bar on the headboard. Experimentally, she pulls on it until the slack is gone, the leather taut. Solas’ pupils are blown wide, dark pools surrounded by flecks of light. She wishes she could paint, so she could draw him like this, all his thoughts gone. In this moment, he is only hers. Instead she sits back on her heels and simply commits the sight to memory, and ignores the voice that tells her that her memories are all she will have left.

She drops the end of the belt on her pillow, next to his head, and then she runs her fingers down his jaw, the hollow of his throat, his torso, resting her hand on his thigh as she seats herself across his legs. She traces a finger over the tip of his erection, and he tries to push into it, but she moves her hand back, hovering above him.

She clucks her tongue.

“Do you want something?” she asks, teasing the bottom of his shaft, so soft and hard beneath the pads of her fingers. “Do you want to come?”

“Yes – ah, please. Please.” His cock pulses and bobs. He has been waiting, throbbing with need, for a long time, and his hands are gripping the headboard hard, his knuckles white. Her position on his legs prevent him from moving his hips much, but he still tries.

“Not yet,” she says, and she flicks her finger at the middle of his cock. Solas lets out a yelp. Unlike his ear, his cock and balls are already sensitive and flushed from earlier, and his reaction is beautiful, his involuntary noises like a sweet melody.

 “Not until I allow it.”

 She wants to control every twitch he makes, she wants him completely under her power, until he has no control left. She wants to push until he has nowhere to go, until he can’t obey, his willing submission a power play she must break.

“Please –” it is all he manages.

She flicks again, her nail hitting the underside of his shaft. “Do you understand?”

“I do, yes,” his voice desperate, quivering.

“Good.”

She moves forward and slides his cock across her wetness, her clit. Everything is sensitive still, and the contact sends sparks through her body.

She lets the tip of him inside her, and she slowly eases her way down until he is finally sheathed fully inside her. She can’t help but groan and clench as he fills her. Solas looks up at her, and his gaze locks with hers. He looks at her like she is the only thing that exists, the world folded away. He is lost and found and wholly hers, in this brief and fluttering existence. She wants to keep him, and she wants to be his too.

She wants this moment to be every moment.

But it can’t. She knows this fragile spell will be broken and lost, crumbled to dust. She will pretend, however, for now. He moves a little, the hardness inside her vibrating. He does not pretend, he has lost all meaning of time.

She starts to move, slowly, flexing her legs and bending her spine. She picks up the leash and she holds it softly in her hand, but she can see where it anchors him to the bed, where the collar rests on his throat. He feels glorious inside of her, and she moves, all the way up and down at a steady pace.

She holds him and grounds him, as he slowly becomes undone, whimpering and mewling.

“Please, Iwyn, please, _vhenan,_ ” he moans, adrift. Her name, the endearment, is sweet on his lips. Too sweet, so she jerks the belt.

“Who is fucking you, Solas?” She loves him under her, she loves him inside her, but she lets her voice carry a hint of malice. They chase the cruelty to the end.

“Inquisitor. _Athim, lasa_. I need…” Solas moans and she feels his magic, like static in the air. He moves his hips up to her in greedy movements, still holding on to the headboard. His control is almost gone, he might have forgotten his hands are free.

“You can hold on a little longer.”

“Yes, please…. Iwyn.”

She is almost coming herself, the pressure building inside her each time she moves, her hips angled to make him fill her, large and throbbing inside her, in the way that makes her scream.

“You should beg some more, then.”

She slows, and she strains, she does not take him in fully any more. She wants to furiously ride him to completion, but she also wants to deny him, to tease him, to draw anguished moans from his lips. She sits up a little and she lifts her hand to tease her own nipples. Solas eyes follow her, his voice deep and lost and beautiful, a litany of pleas.

He screams when she suddenly slams down again, taking him to the hilt.

She leans forward, and she strains, she can feel her own sweat sticking to her body. Solas is beautiful beneath her, his head thrown back, her black belt tight around his neck. She moves faster, and she realizes the high and wild noise is her own voice, echoing off the walls. She leans all the way forward, her lips on his collarbones.

“Come for me,” she whispers, and she bites and then they grind together. She can feel him coming immediately, jerking hotly inside her. Her own release follows, and she collapses on his chest.

Slowly, she catches her breath. She can hear Solas breathing next to her, familiar like wind in the sails, like coming home. She turns her head and kiss his throat, a routine brush of her lips, as she sits up.

She reaches up to where his hands clench to the headboard, and she gently unfolds them, releasing his fingers one by one. She lifts his left hand to her mouth, kissing his fingertips. She feels warm and sated and happy. His spent cock slips out of her, the stickiness between them familiar and welcome. Her heart forgets it is winter.

“Stay,” she whispers, “I’ll be right back.”

And there is a dark whisper of frost as she looks at him, ragged and abused and her belt still wrapped tightly around his throat. _Please don’t go now_ , she wants to plead. _Please do not leave me again_. She doesn’t.

She gets the elfroot salve from her desk along with a damped cloth. This time, at least she can do this, she can allow herself to pretend he wants kindness from her, while he is sated and drowsy.

He has not moved when she returns. He looks like he belongs in her bed, splayed out and imperfect.  She sits next to him, careful and quiet, like he is a wild deer ready to bolt.

She gently spreads the cool healing balm on his chest, tracing the redness she left earlier.

“You don't have to --” he starts. She covers his lips with a finger.

“I want to. Please.” She longs for this, and she will beg if she must.

The look he gives her is so full of pain and longing that she tears her gaze away from his eyes. She wonders what have they become, that a kind touch causes more pain than that of the harsh bite of a crop. She doesn’t cry.

He nods, and lifts his hand, his fingers brushing against her jaw.

“Thank you,” he whispers, and she is not sure if it is for the punishment she delivered, or his release, or her desire to take care of him.

Now, she can want to forgive him. She wants him to forgive himself, to let himself be forgiven, and not feel compelled to pay penance at her alter. She wants him to let himself be loved.

She continues and takes simple pleasure in touching his skin gently, in his shudders under her ministrations. She uses the cloth the clean his groin, and he groans softly when she does. She puts the salve on his sack, and she can’t help her half laugh when his cock twitches again. She tries to give him a stern look, but her eyes sparkle, and Solas’ own lips quirk up in a small smile.

She scoots up next to him and kiss his lips, and he is kissing her back, and she opens her mouth when his tongue seeks entry. They drink each other deeply, desperately, defiantly. He moves to get closer her, but when he lets out a small grunt, she pulls back.

“Turn over,” she says.

He does, and she tends to his back, and now, with his face turned away, she kisses his skin, every redness, every spot she left untouched. His breathing is deep and relaxed, and her smile is a secret as he falls asleep. They exist here independent from the world. Just the two of them, just the bedroom in Skyhold.

She wants him to stay. She wants to be allowed to love him. She wants to know his past, to soothe the void inside him. She wants to bring him pleasure and pain and love whenever he needs it. Everything, she wants everything.

The belt is still around his neck, the end slipped from the headboard. She doesn’t bother to remove it, and curls up next to him, pulling a warm blanket across their bodies.

“Stay,” she whispers into his skin, and she does not know if she means a minute, or a night, or a year, or an eternity.

 

 

The next day he is gone. Her belt is neatly coiled up on her night stand. There is no note. Iwyn sits alone on the big bed, and she puts her head between her legs.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so grateful for all the comments and encouragement and kudos I have received, thank you everyone! I am sorry for the wait. 
> 
> Special thanks to those of you I have been bemoaning my slow progress to, for discussions and help along the way.
> 
> Update - [@liderfin](http://liderfin.tumblr.com/) on tumblr gifted me this [gorgeous work](http://liderfin.tumblr.com/post/177105701700/bigger-ok-so-im-going-to-tag-thevikingwoman) of Iwyn at the end of this chapter. It is beautiful and so very true to her mood, the next thing she would do would be to step outside.


	4. Chapter 4

It has been a long day. Meetings, training, more worries than she can count. Dorian’s reports from Tevinter are troubling. The Qun is troubling. The Orleisian nobles are malcontent, sowing discord at Celene’s court. She will have to move in strong soon, quench any rumor that the Inquisition is weak.

Iwyn rubs her eyes and leans her forehead against the door to her chambers. She pushes the door open and enters.

She blinks, she needs to clear her eyes. The fire is higher than she expected, no servants come here this late. When she gets back from meetings at this hour, usually only embers are left, and she just crawls into her bed under her heavy blankets.

But the fire is roaring, and the room is warm, the curtains are closed. She is sure she left them open, and she frowns. She can think of only one person who would show up unannounced in her bedchamber, and she had not thought Solas would be back. Especially not so soon. It has not been more than ten days since his scent had saturated her sheets, even as he had been gone with the morning light. She finally changed them yesterday.

Her eyes travel her room, her desk, the couch, the dresser. At last she allows herself to look at her bed, where she already knows what she will find.

Solas. Stretched out, long and pale and naked. She walks closer, and notices his arms are stretched above his head. His wrists are tied to her headboard, and he is wearing a blindfold, a dark blue scrap of fabric.

Her feet propel her forward, to her bed, to him. Where else would she go? She is not going to turn and run from her own room, she is not going to leave him be and sleep on her couch. No matter how tired she is, he is an enticing sight, her pulse drumming against her wrist at his presence. She looks down at him, his wrists secured against her headboard, his soft lips, his broad chest and long legs. His cock resting half-hard between his legs. His breathing gets heavier as he realizes she is there, waiting and looking. Her mind frozen in a pale winter, she does not act.

Her enemy, her lover, has tied himself up in her bed. There are no rules, no precedence, no equivalence.

Why is he here? What does he want? What does she want? It keeps swirling in her mind, and the more she thinks about it, the less she knows, except for the uneasy feeling in her gut. He should always be here, with her, and not alone against the world. He should not so desperate for touch that he comes here, begging for attention with no words, provoking and enticing her into action. He should be in her bed because of their love, not because he wants to be punished and cherished in the same breath, without a need to stay.

It does not matter. She cannot, and she will not, resist him, naked and waiting for her. She sits on top of him and kisses him. She licks his lips, and they part easily for her, the kiss turning deep and greedy. He is starving, and so is she.

“Why are you here, Solas?” she whispers, her lips tracing his ear.

He doesn't answer. She nips his jaw, lightly. “Answer me.”

He still doesn’t, and she lifts her hand to slap his face, because this is the game they play, this is the very reason he is here. Their love is dealt in anger and violence. Then she stills. He is goading her, pushing her exactly where he wants. She is past being used. She will no longer fall for his wordless submission, for his manipulations. She no longer cares if he is not going to stay unless she plays by his rules. He is not ceding control to her, he has already determined how she should act.

Her eyes fall on the knife he has placed on the nightstand. Inviting, gleaming in the light, she noticed it before, while her brain pushed it away. He came here with a purpose, but she will not be the alter upon which he sacrifices himself.

She takes the knife and trails it over his collar bone. His breathing hitches and goes ragged, unsteady.

“Is this why you came?” she asks.

“Yes,” he says, now certain of his victory.

She hums and lifts the pressure off, refusing to break his skin.

“Tell me. Tell me what you want me to do.”

“Cut me.” His voice is like gravel. “Please.”

It should not be erotic to hear those words, but she feels dizzy with power. She wonders how it would feel, what it would look like, to cut paths in his skin. How loud would he scream, writhing in pain beneath her? How far would she be able to push him, to push herself?

It is too much. She can’t.

“Did you think you could come here, and I would grant you absolution from you sins?” She trails the knife down his chest, without breaking his skin. “That I would measure out the punishment you have decided you deserve?”

“Please,” he begs again. She can feel his erection against her leg. She jams the knife into the headboard, buries the blade deep in the wood.

“No. You don’t get to decide what you deserve, Solas. Fen’Harel.”

If a measure of pain brings him pleasure and release, she does enjoy giving him that, but he has to respect her boundaries. He has to accept her love along with it. He should be here, under her, because she loves him, because he loves her. Not as a terrible act of self-destruction. She will not see him shatter himself. She must show him that he is loved, that there is more for them than ruin.

Solas jerks under her, his body lurching. His arms bulge, muscles tensing against his own restraints. She kisses the tip of his ear, letting her lips graze the shell.

“You have left yourself here, at my mercy. I will decide when to punish you.”

She leans back, and she does not dare to breathe. She wonders if he truly will let her take charge, of if she has condemned herself. If he will vanish, leaving her alone, with a hand full of ropes and regrets. Instead he juts out his chin and wets his lips. Stalemate.

“What made you really come, what made you crave this?”  she tries again. “Tell me.”

She kisses his jaw, gently, slowly. “Tell me, Solas.”

He says nothing. She waits, and when he still doesn’t talk, she stands and moves away from the bed, from him. She looks at him, and she hopes this will make her assume control of this encounter. She might lose everything, but isn’t he already lost to her? She sits on the couch and picks up her book. She can out wait him, and he knows.

“Iwyn,” he tries, not long after, “would you…”

“I asked you a question,” she says, turning a page, “and it is Inquisitor.” The words flow calm and gentle across the room, but there is a brief and cruel pleasure in denying him, leaving him.

“Sorry, inquisitor,” and it seems like it slips out of his mouth before he can stop it. Before he can use his refusal to get the punishment he believes is his due.

“Good, very good,” she says. His head falls back, hitting the headboard.  

She likes him like that, tied up in her bed. She can pretend he can’t untie himself, that she is fully in charge. It isn’t healthy or wholesome or good, but she pretends he can’t leave. Stuck, he can’t hurt her. He can’t hurt himself.

She turns another page. “I know you will be good and tell me.” She is not truly reading, and she sees the moment he surrenders, deflating. 

“There was an incident,” he says, a cold whisper in the warm room. “People died. Too many deaths. Too big a cost.”

She gets up immediately, and sits in his lap again, where she rewards him with gentle kisses on his cheek.

“Tell me”, she says. “You do not need me judge you.” She kisses his throat, small touches on his soft skin.

“I sent a group of people after The Qun’s agents. I misjudged.”

The Qun has become bolder, stronger, and a bigger nuisance than anyone expected, truly looking to subdue the South. From her reports, she thinks Solas is more focused at them than his original plans at times.

She slides down his body, licks the hard line of his sternum. His heart is pounding.

“It is the risks of war,” she says. “You could not have known.” She covers his chest with kisses, enjoying the flush of his skin under his freckles. Her tongue circles his left nipple as it raises under mouth. He moans, and she caresses his right with her hand, then gently pinches the hard bud.

“I should have known,” he says, the words falling from his lips like a sigh.

“Perhaps,” she says, “but all those people knew the risks.”

She knows now, how deeply he needs her in this moment. She knows the burdens of leadership all too well. She no longer cares about her own tiredness, or the fact that he will leave her again. She no longer cares that what he came for was pain and anger, if her tenderness will drive him away for good. Her harshness may have brought him back here in her bed, but she cannot continue without love, without softness. She knows her love is not enough to keep him, but this way, at least she can truly help him rather than push him down a steep cliff into the abyss of despair.  She is done with her anger. She wants to love him.

“I do not want to send people to die.”

“You did not mean for them to die,” she counters, her mouth tracing his stomach.

“I failed.”

“None of us are infallible.” She kisses the tip of his erection, and he groans. Despite his guilt and reluctance to give in to her, he is hard, needing her, and her touch. She wants him to beg and moan under her, she wants to please him. She wants to help him let go and let all his thoughts fall away.

“I am a failing again, and again. I should… I shouldn’t...” She sits between his legs, her breath ghosting over him, his thighs splayed open. He shakes his head, but his excitement shows, his cock throbbing.

“You’re a good man, Solas.” She nips his inner thigh with her lips, her hand anchoring him.

“No, I am not. Inquisitor. Please. I am not.”

“You are,” she says, and she licks the bottom of his shaft. “You need to allow yourself to be that, Solas.”

He shakes his head meekly, and she swirls her tongue around the top of his cock, tracing the seam where the head peaks out of its hood.

“I... I don’t deserve…”

He is lost, and she sits back, caressing his balls, heavy and beautiful in her hand.

“Do you want me to continue?” she asks.

“Yes, please, yes.” His body jerks up, eagerly seeking her, his hands tethered to her bed. She revels in his desperation, in the fact that he is caught here, with her.

“Then you must tell me,” a kiss, “that you deserve this,” a lick, “that you deserve me.”

He shakes his head, silent and stubborn.

“Tell me,” she says, her hand running over his thigh.

“I am not… you should not…”

“Do you think you are only worth my time if you are punished? Is that it?” She teases the tip of his erection with her finger, catching a drop of precum.  She marvels at how little it takes to excite him.

“What have I done,” he gasps, “to deserve anything?”

Her heart aches for him, and it breaks her to know his loneliness, and how little he thinks of himself. She wants to tell him how much she loves him, but she doubts he will understand. She will try, until the hills echo with her love.

“You are wonderful. I know how much you care, Solas. You have always cared. For everyone. I remember the old lady in the Hinterlands. You healed her dog and gave her an apple.” She stretches her neck, and kiss a freckle on his hips. She wants to remember every detail of his skin. “It is part of what makes you special. Lovable. _Good._ Would you call me a liar?” She accentuates by pumping his cock slowly with her fist.

“You are not,” he admits. She rewards him by engulfing his cock with her mouth, sucking greedily. She has missed the taste of him. The sounds he lets out are magnificent, and she continues, moving her head a few times, before pulling back.

“You deserve love, Solas, and I cannot halt my love for you, no more than I can stop my own heart from beating. _Vhenan_.” She lays herself bare, she has nothing left to bury for the fallow season.

“Iwyn, please,” he sobs. He is shaking, his breathing labored and his whole body is flushed.

She licks the very tip of his cock. “It is not wrong to want love. To be loved. Tell me, _ma lath_. Tell me you deserve it.”

“I am yours, however you will have me,” he says, desperate, needy. “Please. Anything you grant me, I will accept.”

She is reckless, and she can’t stop. “Will you accept my love?”

“Yes, please.” It tears from him, like long strings of light drowned in agony. 

It has to be good enough, she doubts she will get more from him.  She takes him back in her mouth then, swirling her tongue around the ridge of his cockhead, pushing the foreskin back with her lips. She sucks, and she press the tip of her tongue against his slit. Solas moans and strains and thrust into her mouth.

 “Please, I need to… please…”

“Solas, _ma lath_ ,” she whispers, “it is ok. Let go. Let go whenever you need.”

She goes back to licking him, to sucking him, fitting as much as his cock as possible inside her mouth. Her hand strokes his balls, the soft skin right behind them. He trashes into her, and she doesn’t care. She wants to drink him down.

She wants to be a woman loving her man, and she is.

It doesn’t take long and he grunts and he comes, long and warm into her mouth. She swallows everything, bitter and sweet, she wants it all.

When he has calmed, she crawls up closer, so she can lean in and kiss him tenderly. She removes his blindfold and he looks at her, then retreats, closing his eyes. She is so tired now, her soul laid bare. The knife is still embedded in the headboard, and she leaves it there.

“Solas. Look at me,” she says, and he opens his eyes, a dazzling blue. He looks stunned. He seeks comfort, or wants to give it, and he makes an aborted movement to hug her, but his wrists are still tied in place.

“Solas,” she says again, heavy with a thousand unsaid words. “We can't continue like this.” She gestures broadly to space between them, the bed, the ropes, and the knife.

He opens his mouth to say something, and she almost lets him. Maybe he has an explanation. Maybe he will accept her love, past his need for release. Maybe he wants to tell her how he will have to leave. But she stops him with a finger on his lips.

“I am very tired. I'm going to sleep. You have to choose. Either you are here in the morning, and we can talk about this. Or you can disappear again, and never come back.” He can’t keep using her as his personal executioner, she can’t absolve him of his crimes by hurting him. She can’t pretend this is enough. She wants him to be hers, in sweetness and joy, not just in anger and sex.

She kisses him once more. Like she would never kiss him again, and he responds in kind.

She leaves him to get ready for bed. When she comes back, he is still there, and part of her is surprised. She doesn't have room for any other feelings, barely knows if she is relived or angry or worried or happy. He has untied himself, and he is curled up around himself, already asleep. He is probably more tired than her. She studies him. He looks… worn. Blue shades under his eyes. She wonders when he last slept.  He looks thinner than he should, like he hasn’t eaten a full meal in months. With a sigh, she sits next to him and grabs a jar of salve, tending to his bruised wrists. The rope has cut through the skin in places, the marks left are red and angry. How long had he waited? How tight did he make his own bonds? She realizes he did this to himself, in a way, but she still feels a twinge of guilt. She didn’t check. Now she gently soothes his wrist, ands fold her own hand around his long fingers. It feels right, his hand in hers. Will this be the last time she holds him? She shakes her head. She is too tired for this, and she puts the jar away, then lies down next to Solas in the bed. She covers them with a blanket, familiar and normal.

Tomorrow. He might be gone. He might not. But for now, she sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for reading and commenting and for coming along with me on this journey and this version of Solas and Iwyn and their relationship. I hope this open ending is not discouraging, I wanted to leave some room for interpretation. Please let me know you thoughts, both on the whole thing and what the future might bring :)
> 
> That said, I am an eternal optimist, and it might be I am not completely done with this universe. 
> 
> As always, endless thanks to all of you who have supported me, encouraged me, and listening to me complain about my writing troubles, especially Keturagh and Galadrieljones <3


End file.
